


to the riverside

by stringendos



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Friends to Lovers, Injury, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Pining, Reunions, kuroo loves volleyball (!!) and kenma (?!) and makes his life v difficult for himself, learning how to be apart and how to fall back together again, spoilers up to ch375 (more info in start notes!)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:34:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26759545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stringendos/pseuds/stringendos
Summary: “Hey, Kenma. D'you wanna hear a secret?” he breathes out, when he's certain that Kenma's over waist deep in a dream and still sinking. "I think I was in love with you then.”Would it be okay with you, if I were to tell you that I think I still am?the quiet art of falling in love with your best friend, as told by kuroo tetsurou.(and finding out that despite distances; mapped out by train lines and air miles and years between; some things never change.)
Relationships: Kozume Kenma/Kuroo Tetsurou
Comments: 6
Kudos: 15





	to the riverside

**Author's Note:**

> **injury warning:**  
>  \- kuroo gets an ankle injury (serious enough for him to take a break, but not career ending and in the healing process. sports injuries can be a difficult topic for some people, so pls take care!)  
> \- and a flesh/open wound (he... falls down a hill...)
> 
>  **spoilers:**  
>  \- for ch 265-266, 269, 318-325  
> \- and brief mention of ch375
> 
> i started this ~2 months ago for day 1 of kuroo week, then took a long break, started writing again, w the aims of posting it as a oneshot but it turned into this... thing lol... it's outlined and sitting at ~32k words rn and will be padded out and posted in parts

Time is a funny thing: tilt your head one way and it stretches long enough for your bones to start creaking.

Tilt it the other and it goes in the blink of an eye, as if one grain of sand is enough to fill an entire lifetime.

* * *

The call comes in at three in the morning, when Kuroo’s still caught in a dream travelled with eyes wide open. Through viscous smoke, his mind wanders, tentative in the wade through oceans. He jolts, midcalf into the wave, when the vibration threatens to drill into his skull, impatient now, as it rolls into the third cycle.

He blinks slowly; once, then twice; and waits for his mind to catch up. Brick by brick, the world builds, as his surroundings pull back into focus.

Shoulder blades pressed against the floor, spine awkwardly bent, legs thrown on the bed; that spider still, lingering beside the air conditioning. Grocery store bought coffee within arms reach, half empty now, the condensation sweating into a coaster ring; a fistful of tangled wires, beginnings and endings unfound. On his stomach, a pair of shorts sits, midway through the fold, then abandoned. His right ankle is propped up on a mountain built from pillows and blankets, and brick shaped t-shirts that Kuroo needs to fit into his suitcase.

Phone, he notes, _still_ ringing; dangerously teetering into shrieking, in a pressure cooker ready to burst.

Somewhere in the room, the wall clock ticks; loud enough to remind Kuroo of the collapsing time limit, vaguely noted but barely stirred.

He doesn't check the caller ID. Just blindly rifles around on the bedside table above him, like he’s trying to navigate the earth, hands first.

“My morning runs are lonely without you,” is Bokuto’s choice of greeting, the moment he picks up, as if Kuroo being a continent away was the only reason he had stopped joining him on his chase for the sun. “I think it’s making me slower too.”

“Oh yeah?" He pushes his hair from his face, stretching out and relishing in the way he feels his bones pop. "Wait… does this mean I’m now faster than VC Kanagawa’s outside hitter? 

“No!” Over the line, Bokuto sputters, his offence misplaced as he adds on, “I haven’t actually decided yet.”

“Faster than _MSBY’s_ outside hitter, then,” Kuroo corrects neatly, laughing when Bokuto’s complaints get louder. “Check this out; I’m faster than a V.League player! My family will be so proud of me.”

“Wait, _what_?” Kuroo hears a rattle. It’s not hard to picture Bokuto slamming his fist down onto the table, and then surprising himself at the force. “We’re gonna go for a rematch when you get home!”

Hum low in the back of his throat, Kuroo repeats their usual stakes. “Winner picks the place for dinner?”

“Loser pays for a month.”

He turns on speaker phone and winces when the time glares back at him, the four digits scolding now, before tossing it back onto the bed, resigned to getting up.

When he clambers to his feet, a pain shoots up through his shin, burns straight through to the tips of his fingers, hot and fast and _blinding._ A jeering reminder that leaves him heaving. It catches him off guard, yanks him by the ankles abrupt enough to throw him off balance. Kuroo doesn't even realise that he's bracing himself against a wall, hand splayed out and desperately clutching, until the haze clears.

(If Bokuto hears the way he's trying to smother his yelp through the static, he’s kind enough to let it go unanswered.)

There is an art to packing that Kuroo still hasn’t picked up despite the years. Time warps in the leadup to flights, and no matter the preparation, there is always a scurry to gather belongings. No matter how small hotel rooms are, how big suitcases stretch, the time allocated to pack is never enough. Given a minute or a decade, Kuroo’s always left sitting in the middle of the floor halfpacked.

He’s exhausted to the bone, the groggy type, with too much restless energy and not enough motivation to do anything about it, and it has somehow taken a whole hour to pack his toiletries alone. Small errands suddenly feel like monstrosities, corners take eternities to organise; and even a rucksack, three quarters of the way full, leaves the packing list undented.

Kuroo’s still trying to cram two and a half weeks worth of a holiday into his suitcase. Scanning from his vantage point in the middle of the room, he takes in each object, and tries to gauge the final volume. Places them then, onto a mental scale, as if his eyes alone could determine whether or not he’ll be slapped with an over-the-limit fee, and left to reveal his sentimentalities on the airport floor.

Running his hands down his face, he sighs, and gets back to work. Bokuto keeps him company, filling the room with his voice.

He does not ask about packing, or his ankle, or if any of his olive branches have left his draft box; for the world would tell him that Bokuto lacks tact with no exceptions; but Kuroo knows otherwise. That between them, Bokuto knows exactly when to push and pull; not by thoughts or words or careful calculation, but instead, by instinct alone.

After all, Bokuto has seen him at his best, and his worst; and all the landmarks in between; even if he dislikes the way of skirting that Kuroo has picked up in the last three years. Around seed sized fears that dig deep and sprout, that grow into elephants the size of rooms; worried for all the things that Kuroo may leave unsaid.

(And for that, Kuroo is grateful. That he’ll grant him this little stretch of land to rest, for one. That he’ll push him forward when he’s ready to brave the shoreline, for another.)

Bokuto’s halfway through telling Kuroo about this new cat in the neighbourhood, when he interrupts himself by a sudden reminder and blurts out, “Oh, yeah! Guess what I found?” His LINE notification resounds. “Turns out you were right after all… I never packed it…” And he has the decency to sound a little sheepish.

Making his way back across the room to where his phone is propped up, he leans over the screen, and swipes it open. It’s a photo of Bokuto’s portable fan, sliver of his water bottle peeking onto the frame, followed by a sticker of Brown bowing.

The bottom of his suitcase has become a chasm filled with things Bokuto had left lying around their hotel room. A pair of slippers, too impersonal to miss; a matching sleeping mask to Kuroo’s own, that he insisted he would. His two prong adapter from Daiso, temperamental at best, that didn’t even fit the socket properly, and even then, only worked at certain angles.

A week earlier, they hadn’t bothered with packing properly for Bokuto’s flight home, breezily waving it off as _next week Kuroo’s problem_ , as they tried to cram a fortnight’s worth of tourism into twenty-four hours. On the journey back, Bokuto offered earnest promises of watering Kuroo’s little plant and sweeping away cobwebs collecting on the balcony, sprinkled with reassurances that he should enjoy his extra seven days away from Tokyo.

As if on cue, Bokuto’s daily proofshot comes in, in the usual form of an attached photo of himself. This time, he's posing with the pot in his lap, a tap water filled Namacha bottle raised to the camera.

Kuroo's remembers when he had first gotten it, and how he had forgotten _how much water_ tilted into overwatered, and showering it with a waterfall from the mouth of the bottle. Remembers then, when he had come home to drenched soil, his little plant struggling to remain afloat through the flood.

(And thinking that it’s no different from himself sometimes.)

* * *

It’s two weeks into his first year at university, in the lull between orientation and first assignments, when Kuroo hears a knock on his door.

“Lev was worried you were lonely,” Yaku says when Kuroo answers, nudging past him in the doorway. He doesn’t even bother to _pretend_ to wait for an invitation, walking into his room as if he owns the place. Shoes toed off, Yaku beelines to his desk, and places a plant pot onto the surface. It settles down with a solid thud.

Behind him, Kuroo squints as he closes the door. “So he sent _you_ ?” He shifts his face into one he knows Yaku hates, with a stronger shade of _scheming_ this time, and smirks. “If you missed me so much, you could’ve just said! Don’t get shy on me now, Yakkun.” 

Yaku doesn’t even bother to craft a retort. Just sends Kuroo and his eyebrow wiggles a faceful of whatever he can get his hands on.

(His choice of weapon turns out to be Jiji: Kuroo’s cat shaped plushie, gifted to him from Kenma when they were younger.

It was not for a birthday, or a first win, or any calendar marked occasion; just a present of _just because_ , and an embarrassed toeing of the ground beneath them, with Kenma refusing to look him in the eye. Kuroo’s wrapping skills were limited to cuboids from PlayStation and their boxed wonders, and it seemed that Kenma fared no better. The packaging was creased from all of his attempts and in the end, Kenma settled for hiding it in a Shin-chan patterned gift bag, and shoving it into Kuroo’s hands on the way home.

At eleven, Kuroo cradled the plushie, oddly touched, and smothered Kenma in a hug that he did not try to wiggle out of.

At eighteen, Kuroo stares at its face, runs a thumb over the little rip eating into its ear, and clamps down on the swelling in his throat. He bangs his knee on the cupboard. Then curses, rubs gingerly at his knee, and follows Yaku into his room.)

It’s a tiny room, with too many things, and not enough floor space, cluttered like his mind that still can’t remember room numbers, and names of all of his lecturers. He still trips over his bag and stubs his toe on the table leg and spooks himself in the reflection when he wakes up in the middle of the night.

“The team wanted to visit but Kenma said no, so then the idiot turned up on _my_ doorstep with a box of plants. _Three_ of them," Yaku stresses, as he shrugs off his jacket, draping it on the back of the chair. "One for each of us apparently.”

There is too much to unpack at once. So first, Kuroo goes for, “How was he planning to get it to Kai?”

“Knowing him? He'd probably try to hand deliver it.”

At this, Kuroo can’t help the little huff of laughter that escapes. “But it's Fukuoka.”

"It’s _Lev_ ,” he reminds him. “He has no sense of distance. Don’t you remember? He said we should have a 'quick training camp' in Kagoshima."

He does. Lev had looked so earnest then, that there was a little part of Kuroo that felt bad for laughing. Somehow, he was convinced that they could make the trip there and back in the bus they took to competitions and stay long enough to make it worthwhile.

"That was your fault, by the way. Putting ideas into his head."

"What-"

"You're such an old man. Telling stories to the kids about _golden years_ and _nostalgic summers_."

At this, Kuroo can't help but rise to the bait. Points out that Yaku calls them _the kids_ too, that Yaku’s older than him, so _who’s the old man here?_

(But tiptoes carefully, and leaves the comment about sentimentalities untouched.)

Air fading into a quiet simmer, jabs come like second nature, with no real heat.

Settling back down onto the floor, Kuroo returns to his stack of handouts he was reading before Yaku had arrived. Yaku settles down on his bed, but barely half a minute in, complains about the state of it, hastily made earlier that morning. Kuroo remembers Yaku and his futon in training camps; always nicely folded and pleasantly smelling; and thinks that Yaku would find fault in Kuroo’s own regardless of how many wrinkles he smoothed out of the duvet.

After shuffling around to get comfortable, Yaku picks up again. “Kenma told him to order one to be delivered straight to Kai’s dorm instead and I told him that I’d give you yours.”

On the table, the plant sits, its spiky leaves upright and looking out of place. From where he’s sitting, Kuroo considers it for a few moments, and the way it casts shadows on the wood.

“This one’s the hardest to kill. Figured the kids will be upset it died within the first month.”

Placing a hand on his heart, Kuroo gasps, scandalised, “I’m not gonna kill it!” He turns back to look at Yaku who pulls a face in return. Then, adds on a little petulantly, “I’d make a great plant dad.”

Pretending to yield, Yaku nods. “You’re right. Gardening _is_ sort of a grandpa hobby.”

They run in circles, _old man_ versus _plant killer_ , until Kuroo realises he still has a handful of half answers. Yaku offers an explanation that he doesn’t even look convinced about. Something about being _lonely after graduation_ and internet backed cures.

“By Lev’s logic, he thinks that if you get lonely, you should date someone. If you can’t do that, get a pet. Seeing as _you_ can’t do either, because you’ve been cursed with _that_ ugly mug-”

“Have you _seen_ yourself-”

“-and none of our buildings allow pets,” he continues, ignoring Kuroo completely, “then the next best thing is this.”

“A plant?” Tilting his head, Kuroo squints. There must be something he’s missing here. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time that Yaku had thrown him five different ends and expected him to tie them together. “Since when was that a thing? That’s not a thing.”

Yaku shrugs. “Don’t look at me. Lev’s words, not mine.”

Unconvinced, Kuroo replies, “ _Lev_ called me ugly?”

“I’m sure he’s thinking it. Anyone with eyes would.”

“You can just tell me you miss looking at me every day, Yakkun. No need for the tsundere act!”

Yaku scowls, throwing a scrunched up pyjama shirt at him that was used to pad out his suitcase. The medicinal smell still lingers from the glass bottles of ointment that his grandfather had packed for future injuries, sure to be had.

* * *

The next time Yaku’s in the neighbourhood, he meets Kuroo at a cafe a short walk away from campus. Table covered with a layer of worksheets, Kuroo's part the way through Question 5 when Yaku joins him.

Thankful for a distraction, Kuroo catches up with him, and then updates him in turn. How Yamazaki-san, three doors down, had told him that there’s a haunted lab in the biology department; how Tokyo is far, _far_ bigger than he’d realised; and how Kenma’s been complaining about unbearable first years and not knowing how to deal with it as captain.

Midway through telling him about a game that might come out in time for Kenma’s birthday, seeking advice on whether he should choose the _collector's_ edition, or settle for _deluxe_ , he realises that Yaku isn’t even listening.

He pauses, half a step into the question, a prickle bleeding into the back of his neck. Across from him, Yaku leans back in his chair, and peers at him, oddly scrutinising, as if deciding whether or not to help him out.

For some reason, Kuroo suddenly feels guilty; as if he’s done something wrong without even realising it. “What?”

Apparently Yaku settles for _no_ , and he shakes his head, hoarding his thoughts to himself. “Nothing.”

Refusing to let go, Kuroo presses, insistent, “What?”

“ _Nothing._ ” When Kuroo stretches out to kick Yaku in the shin, he graciously decides to elaborate, but not before kicking him away. “Not giving Kenma a chance to miss you, huh?”

“He’s... my best friend.” Words pulled out slowly, carefully venturing; hand still blindly scribbling into the margins. “Wouldn’t it be weird if I _didn’t_ know what he was up to?”

For a few moments, Yaku holds his silence; just keeps staring at him as Kuroo busies his fingers. He’s been underlining this paragraph for what must be close to ten minutes now; jotting down illegible marks that he’ll reread later, to find they hold no meaning.

These days, Yaku has this particular way of speaking that forms words in the shapes of hard stares and raised eyebrows; waiting for Kuroo to catch on. And even when Kuroo fails, all meanings unfound, Yaku does not take pity on him, and refuses to grant him a hint.

Instead, he decides to venture once more, _nonchalant_ , though they both know that it’s loaded. “You haven’t seen him in a while.”

Assignment forgotten, Kuroo crosses his arms, then props his elbows up onto the table. “It hasn’t been that long.” _This_ accusation, however, he can hear even in silence. “It’s unhealthy to see each other so much, you said so yourself.”

“Practically decades for you guys,” he replies, without skipping a beat. “Remember when Kenma got sick that time in second year and you skipped practice to see him.”

“It was my fault he got sick!” Kuroo replies hotly. He doesn’t know why he’s bringing that up now. “Besides, I’m busy.” He pulls his right hand free to wave at the papers spread on the table. Yaku’s cup is painting a ring into one of his worksheets. “ _He’s_ busy.” And he doesn’t want Kenma to think that he doesn’t know how to give him space.

“Well,” Yaku says, as if settling in finality, “that’s what you get for picking chemistry.” For some reason, it seems that Yaku’s feeling kind enough to lay that line of question to rest. Kuroo’s not sure if he should feel grateful or not. “A _science_ degree… while also aiming for pro. Who does that?”

It’s not a sentiment unheard of.

Had it been anyone else, Kuroo would have bristled, guard up and ready to reason; listing all one thousand paths and counting, that he had already considered. But Yaku and Kai were the ones who had pushed him forwards; convinced him that his choice was one that was worth trying for; that just because everyone had said that climbing this mountain would be hard, it didn’t mean it was _impossible_.

(After all, don’t all summits seem to be so, if you must break through the clouds?)

In the leadup to the university entrance exam, they had spent so long contemplating, unease looming over them. Voices hushed in the clubroom, on the walk home, the night before Harukou. Their _Future Plans_ forms plastered into their eyelids, responsibilities and decisions pressing down on their necks as each month rolled closer to graduation.

In that river of uncertainty, a crossroads before them, the three of them stood. Caught in an ocean of choices and still wading; V.League or university; which team, which university; what division, what major.

(How far do you want to go? How long do you want to hold on?)

Stripped down to the barebones, layer by layer, choice by choice, it boiled down to _keeping volleyball_ and _not._

(Disappointing himself or his family.)

“I do, Yakkun.” Chin up, childish; smothering the uncertainty that threatens to rise.

“I can imagine your breakdowns already,” he drawls, before taking a sip from his drink. “Don’t call me for them.”

“I won’t!”

“That’s right,” he backtracks, smirking at him. “You’ll call Kenma instead.”

It’s not a lie, not even half of one; but Kuroo raises a middle finger up at him despite it, in his only offer of denial.

* * *

Without meaning to, Kuroo proves him wrong.

In this new time zone; a landmass pumped full of a population of sleep deprived students who define fine dining as ramen, _not_ instant, maybe with a vegetable or an egg; two in the morning is deemed an acceptable time to do laundry.

A couple months in and he’s still trying to find his feet. His back to back assignments grant him no mercies, each deadline growing harder to meet. Volleyball, at university level, is another beast in itself. The team is kind, if only intense and a little awkward, as usual, when it comes to all adjustment periods. And when Kuroo mentions his major (picked to appease his family), and his goals (chosen as a promise to himself), they’re polite enough to swallow scoffs, even though he knows what they’re thinking as soon as he says it. After all, the team is made from two solid halves, with bodies tilted towards a professional team _or_ high academic percentiles.

One priority over the other, rankings marked out, clear. (If push comes to shove, they will yield to one tide.)

In the middle, Kuroo stands greedy, with one foot in both, and learns now, just how deep these waters go.

“Who does that?” he mutters into his hands, already thigh deep and still sinking; refusing to admit he’s in over his head. His phone left unlocked, sits heavy in his pocket; Kenma's number left undialed. A little quieter, he breathes out, into the still of the night, “who does that?”

Offering no comforts, the washing machine gurgles, in his only response.

* * *

Perhaps, Kuroo thinks, that was the first splinter.

* * *

Blessed with skills from the _packing gods_ or not, Kuroo decides that last minute packing is a talent in itself, strangely proud as he zips up his suitcase. A slap to the top of it, palm full of encouragement to survive just one more longhaul flight.

Beyond the window, the city is beginning to stir. Storefronts opening, the streets line with the first wave of early risers, ready to sprint into the day ahead.

Back in Tokyo, Bokuto asks, “Finished packing?”

Kuroo pushes his suitcase upright, rolls it to the doorway, and checks everything off in taking attendance. Passport wedged into the back compartment of his bag, jacket pockets patted for his wallet; lights switched off. The early morning sunlight filters through the open curtains, bathing the room in a pale yellow. He hums in reply.

“You ready?” comes Bokuto’s next question, voice a little softer.

Suitcase locked, neck pillow swinging, his backpack straps adjusted. Kuroo knots his shoes, left, then right. Readjusts his brace, slipping a finger beneath it; tugs once, to grant it breathing space. When he stands upright, he’s careful to lean on his left and favour his right.

Then, he shuts his eyes and takes a breath in.

The roaring in his ears mellows out into a soft hum; his heartbeat, a steady pulse behind his sternum.

“Yeah.”

On the exhale, he focuses the air whistling through his lungs.

When he opens his eyes to look into the mirror, he tilts his chin up, and nods at his reflection looking back at him. Lets his resolve harden and redistributes his weight, taking note of the way the earth pushes back against the soles of his shoes.

In reply, his ankle does not moan in protest.

“I’m ready.”

* * *

_A trip,_ they say, _will be good for him._

To lands where he has to get by with English phrases somehow learnt off of cartoons, high school textbooks useful only in passing exams. For they never advertised the nerves, creeping up necklines, when on bus routes that lead him astray; nor structured revision in preparation for panic filled moments as train conductors punch ticket validity. All worries for missing home hidden in the fine print.

In a way, they’re right: for _resting_ , just beyond the court, in his apartment in Tokyo, with the tiny balcony and rusty railing, is still too close to the volleyball net that lingers over the edge of his dreams.

Kuroo takes the suggestion and exchanges it with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, back rigid in his bow when leaving the coach’s office. Against his back, his bag feels too heavy, weighed down with his written permission for leave, paperclipped to his physio appointment list. Clumsy with his crutches, each click preceding his own, feels too unsure; each step, too taxing. 

Beneath his feet, small clouds of cherry blossoms erupt, browning now, since last night’s rainfall. The road home suddenly feels unmanageable, stretching farther than he can see. A little bitterly, he wonders when the distance had grown this long.

After all, this is the nature of injuries: a familiar face that you’ll be sure to greet, for sometimes they will wait for you on your doorstep, like a package you were not expecting; or will loom on the horizon, when all prior warnings are ignored.

And they say that how you speak to them will be the deal breaker.

Listen to each wince, each sharp intake of breath, no matter how muted, and you will be able to smooth it over. But neglect them, ignore them, and a hairline fracture will rupture into something that eclipses an entire planet.

For warnings do not always arrive after overtraining, nor in that blind rush to push through, frustration eating into bones, a burning at the back of the neck that chides the stupidity. 

Sometimes, they arrive like a sobering reminder; as if the universe is trying to rip you out of the cycle, stop you in his tracks. In the buildup of a knot wound so tightly, dismissed and never checked, until it snaps.

Ruptures into pieces that cannot be fastened back together.

* * *

“Are you gonna call him?”

* * *

He’s hobbling through his living room, lights left off, making the impossible journey from his bed to his fridge, when it happens.

There’s a stupid box that he’s left open in the middle of the floor. A misstep, one frantic grab for any lifeline. And when he comes to, he’s on his back, blinking up at the ceiling. The throbbing at his temples is pounding now, a mess knotting his sleep soft migraine to the knock to his head, already bruising. Distantly, he recalls leaving his crutches propped up by the door, far out of arm’s reach.

He waits-

(For the frustration to rush to the surface, split through his skin, rip breaths shallow from his ribcage, leaving the wound to fester. For his sobs to wrack through his body as the world threatens to drown him, let the ground fall from beneath his feet.

Just like he had that day, hands clenched into fists, crescents dug into his palms; angry and painful and clawing at his insides. When his captain had found him beneath the net, unsure of how to carry responsibilities on his too narrow shoulders.

When he shoved everything down in the same way he did complaints; tried to muffle the ache in his chest in same way he wrapped his ankle; to pad out that fear of not being able to live up to expectations, to live out dreams that are not his alone. An extra roll of tape that time, to silence the twinge; a can of air salonpas that emptied faster than expected.)

-and stops. When it doesn’t come to greet him.

So instead, he listens; to the world beyond his window, the traffic, muted; the way his breaths come out shallow. Counts; alongside the steading dripping of his leaky tap, the beat of his hear; the rhythm in which it pulses, then stutters. 

Feels the tears collecting in the corners of his eyes, how they burst when he tries to blink them away. The bone deep ache settling in his limbs, and how he's lost and tired, and homesick for himself at eighteen.

* * *

Tipping points can be shaped like this.

Sometimes, they come like a gasp for air. A sudden rush to the surface before it cracks, bringing with it a crash of waves that breaks through, leaving you hunched over to hollow out your bones; each breath clawing at your throat. 

Other times, they mellow out into a calm. The fog bleeds out. You blink down at your hands, take in the bumps and grooves of the valleys that always looked back at you. Your heartbeat slows to a gentle pulse, steady and familiar, but only noticed now. Like breaking the surface after being submerged, and waking up from a long dream.

* * *

(And in the aftermath, it is always _him_ that Kuroo thinks of first.)

* * *

Four hours before boarding his flight back to Tokyo, Kuroo sends the messages in a blind rush, leaving no leeway for second rounds of overthinking, and does not wait for a reply. One swipe down, a press to start _airplane mode_ ; phone then, shoved into his jacket, _out of sight, out of mind_ , and left to threaten holes burnt through pockets.

Letting the familiar rumble of the airport roll over him, he tries not to fuss over it.

The antsy energy gathers anyway, the same brand that collects in fingers that press buttons for an elevator, seemingly too far to arrive. In willing a train’s doors to open as it approaches the platform; in rocking on the balls of his feet, for traffic lights to switch.

(That feeling that lingers in hands stretched out, ball to palm to court, and a glance to the stands in victory.)

* * *

`[Read] Dyou think i’ll get stopped in customs for all the snacks im gonna bring home?????`

`[Read] Last time bokuto didnt know dried meat wasnt allowed and we had to eat three packs of salami before the security part`

`[Read] You know. Where you throw out all your water`

* * *

The plane lands, sending strings of apologies for delays echoing through the tannoy.

In overhead luggage retrieval duty, unprompted and self appointed, Kuroo successfully manages to avoid knocking himself out when emptying the luggage bins. He hands over the handbag to the grandmother who’s sitting across the aisle from him, and grins when she thanks him.

She’s still insistent that he meets her granddaughter, words paired with a wild glint in her eye, wielding a weapon that only a grandmother could. It must be a universal talent, Kuroo thinks, the way grandparents can smile through any awkwardness, persistence never waning, as if accepting denial is a discovery unheard of. She takes his polite refusals, slightly bashful, and so many shades of embarrassed, and hears them as a series of _maybes_. Certain that if she keeps going, she’ll wear down on his resolve until it turns into dust.

(Kenma had told him once, staring at him with a look that he couldn’t decipher, that despite his _face_ and his _whole demeanour_ ; Kuroo was the type to recognise a trap for all it is, and willing walk into it, in payment for his grandparents’ happiness. That despite what people said and thought, or whatever _weird_ image they’d crafted of him, he couldn’t hide anything from Kenma.

He wonders, a little distantly, if it still holds true.)

Off the plane he goes, polite smiles offered to the flight attendants, paired with his usual thanks, muscle memory now. Then, a bathroom break to splash water on his face, shaking out the ache in his legs and breaking apart the clusters of the pins and needles settled in the small of his back.

Self imposed ban lifted, after small victories of squashing down on obsessive checking, he lets the flood gates open, roll of notifications tumbling in. Sends a quick message to his family’s group chat, to say that he’s _finally arrived safely,_ that maybe he _should’ve booked with a local airline instead_ , and _excited to see my gifts from duty-free?_

He’s midway through putting his phone back into his pocket, to leave the layers to build, time stamps chasing circles in switching back to JST, before he freezes in his tracks.

The notifications flicker on screen for a second before the next in the queue forces its way to the front. Bokuto’s _plant watering check in_ is displaced with a string of his own thoughts, too fast for Kuroo’s brain to catch up, and then, sprouting up from the mix is _Kenma_ ; before Bokuto’s tide pulls in once more, something about _protein servings_ and _sorting the recycling_ ; all traces of Kenma replying drowned.

Phone in hand, still vibrating from belated texts and their attempts of catching up, Kuroo stares. A beat, then two. The water from the faucet bleeds into his shirt.

( _How embarrassing,_ he will chide himself later, when he’s sprawled out on his bed, attempts to sleep off the jetlag discarded, _that a LINE notification is enough to awaken butterflies._ )

For now, he pretends he does not notice the swoop in his stomach, nor the way his hands stutter; the way he shakes off the jitter of anticipation that creeps into his limbs.

 _yeah i heard from akaashi,_ it reads, before sandwiching a thirty-two minute intermission.

_dont wear the shoes u wore when u came back from hawaii._

Kuroo stares at the most recent bubble trapped underneath his thumb, as if the moment he lifts it, the words would disappear. Those shoes were the ones that had triggered the metal detector.

* * *

Face down on Kenma’s bed, he’d complained to him as soon as he’d gotten back, after one quick stop at his own house to greet his family. About how he’d been so careful about his clothes that day, his shorts (stitched with an endless supply of pockets), his shirt (matching Bokuto’s and _not ugly,_ despite Yaku’s insistence); not a piece of metal in sight.

It was a graduation trip, his first one abroad, with Kai appointed to hold the power (and unfortunate responsibility) on the basis of age alone.

As if to mark the occasion, Kenma had come with him to buy a suitcase, and Kuroo had remembered thinking that it was strange; how something as banal as _suitcase shopping_ , could be extravagant.

How with his head tilted, looking through the right angle-

(side by side with Kenma, backs of hands barely brushing; a phantom itch to reach out-)

-even the most unsuspecting things could contain a wonder.

* * *

So close to home now, Kuroo can feel how the fatigue wants to settle into his muscles; the particular type reserved only for long haul flights and their seats with minimal leg room, the awkward clamber over seats, and trying to pick ‘ _chicken or beef?’_ over the rumble.

And a certain tightness in his stomach, that comes with destinations almost reached.

The left strap of his backpack is twisted, digging into his shoulder. It's filled to the brim with souvenirs, their sole purpose being dust collectors, foreign snacks that may not suit his grandparent’s palates, and airplane water with that weird lingering aftertaste. His neck pillow, dangling off of one of the straps of his backpack, sways with each step, like a little pendulum that swings his weight around, wavering.

Like a terrible mistake, realised only in trailing moments, he finds himself imagining Kenma beyond the arrival gates.

One heartbeat behind, he catches the feeling and deems it misplaced; for he hadn’t even asked Kenma to meet him here. No plans were made, no words hinted. If Kuroo checks Kodzuken’s streaming page, he’ll probably find out that Kenma’s too busy building his fanbase to brave crowds with rolling luggages, and the tangles of language that all meld together. Too busy to greet an old friend who is built more on outdated memories now, than anything else.

Kenma doesn’t even know that Kuroo’s flight was delayed.

(He probably hasn’t even crossed his mind.)

It’s not like Kuroo had left with _total_ radio silence; but their phone calls which stretched hours whittled down into single lined messages, tentative and stilted.

Because it wasn’t a nasty fallout, or even one to begin with; no rejection or argument or deep rooted resentment to leave aftertastes bitter. Just the quiet drift of friendships and not knowing how to pick up where they left off; or if the opportunity to do so has already left the platform. And perhaps this is just how it is: growing up, even if it means growing apart; something that Kuroo had never wished for, but had somehow let happen anyway.)

Now, he’s caught in the awkward limbo of not knowing where anything stands when he used to be able to map out the universe with his eyes closed, confident that Kenma would not let him fumble.

Left with idle chatter, and likes on Instagram, and a series of messages left unsent. Left checking his YouTube page with however many Play Buttons lining his wall.

Some time after school, homework finished, and volleyball practice done with, the two of them sat huddled around the computer in Kenma’s living room, setting up his niconico profile. At that point, he was still the faceless _applepi_ , and Kuroo, his most dedicated viewer; the number one source of the _wwww_ s lining the screen.

Funny this, how the most unremarkable memories are the ones that break through the surface. Sometimes, they catch him randomly; midway through washing the dishes, or walking across campus, and it is not the squeak of volleyball shoes against the court, or a Final Fantasy commercial on television, but instead, a watermelon, 25% off, which reminds him of Kenma. Of one of their summers spent, sprawled out on their stomachs, fingers sticky from the slices.

By the time he breaks through to the arrivals lounge, he’s determined to squash down on the hope.

But Kuroo looks up and thinks that his eyes are playing tricks on him when he sees _him_ there. He’s standing by the MEIJI PARLOR sign, away from the heart of the bustle. Motivated perception they call it; seeing something that you want to see, even if it’s not truly there. Terms learnt only at four in the morning, too many tabs open as the search engine shaped manhole cover shifted to let him delve into a rabbit hole, lab report on Grignard reagents shoved to the sidelines.

Swarm of people passing by, for appointments to be met, and families to be reunited, Kuroo pauses, centres himself, and lets the wishful thinking pass him over. He’ll check the N’EX timetable, his fingers crossed that the wait for the first train doesn’t stretch too wide, and will not dwell on disappointment he does not feel, misplaced and _irrational_.

The crowd clears; Kenma doesn’t.

That’s definitely Kozume Kenma there, Nintendo Switch in hand, standing a little taller, slouch to his posture casual now; like he’s settled into his skin, hair a little longer than Kuroo remembers.

All at once, he feels it; the tide rushing in at his ankles, flooding his shoes.

 _Kenma_ he thinks, as if he had been waiting years for his mouth to form these syllables again. _Kenma_ , as if he had been practising for this without meaning to; ready on his tongue as always, but unfamiliar enough that it sounds strange out loud.

* * *

Like catching the tailend of a thought before he's even voiced it, Kenma looks up and meets his eye across the ocean.

* * *

When they were younger, it felt like Kuroo had always been the one to set the pace. Walking ahead to part the crowds, feeling Kenma’s fingers hook into the hem of his jacket. (Wondering, a little distantly, if Kenma is sick of him stepping out first.)

Now, Kuroo notes, Kenma leads the way.

Settling into the space just a little behind him, Kuroo's grip tightens on his bags. He can’t stop fidgeting, energy thrumming in his muscles; looking at the curve of the right joycon through Kenma's jacket pocket, the way their feet fall out of step.

When the rattle of his luggage interrupts the little bubble from building around them, carves out a line that threatens to split down the middle, Kuroo thinks once more, of the suitcases lining his wall now. Brand new, still clean; still not stepped off of Tokyo soil and his apartment’s floorboards.

But these are too small, too big; for they are ones with not enough pockets, or pointless ones that can just about fit a comb, neglected and forgotten, after failing to tame his bed head. This suitcase, an _obnoxious shade of Nekoma red_ , with the handle that jams sometimes, is still his first choice, even if it isn’t his only. Even with a zipper that only closes one way, its tab, twice replaced but missing again. Even with an imprint shaped in the heel of his palm, born from when he slipped and grappled for any support to break his fall.

One of the wheels spins, stuttering over a groove in the tiles, cutting straight through the silence. Kenma doesn’t stop walking, just slows, even when his neck swivels to stare at it. Kuroo wonders what he’s thinking of so seriously.

In a quiet question, he tries to catch Kenma’s eye. When he’s successful, Kenma just shakes his head.

“Nothing.” He shoves his hands into his pockets, throwing a glance over his shoulder back at him. “You’re just... the same.”

It’s been thirteen months since Kuroo has seen Kenma in person, and longer since they’ve had any real conversation.

Even then, that meeting was fleeting; a small _hello_ at the doorstep, eyes unmet; darting around at the ceiling, the pile of coats; his scuffed shoes, and the miles between their toes. Pointedly made sure he did _not_ stare at him from across the room, through the sea stuffed into four walls; did _not_ notice the rosy glow on his cheeks, nor the way he hid his smile behind his drink.

He’s got an ankle injury that can’t be choked with kinesio tape, spent the last three years trying to keep afloat, determined to stick on the path less travelled; doesn’t know what to do with any of the business cards, stamped with V.League club names he’s only seen in magazines, a little crumpled and sun faded, and doesn’t know when he’s going to graduate.

He is not the same.

Before Kuroo can even find the words; figure out how to deny it, brush it off before the river stretches too wide to salvage, Kenma decides to pick up on the thought again, like he knows that left alone, Kuroo would leave the thread to unravel.

“You’re still, you know,” he continues, staring down the platform that seems far too quiet now, “sentimental.”

He had prided himself once, of always knowing what to say and when to say it; for _this_ is what Kenma means when he says that; and this is what Kenma’s thinking when his footfalls fall into this kind of rhythm. For it was never days where he knew Kenma well, and days where he didn’t; but instead, the turbulent ebb and flow of being convinced that he had him figured out, which then fell away to the uneasiness of being wrong after all.

Now, unsure of what to say, Kuroo swallows the lump forming in his throat before he does something embarrassing, and offers a half grin.

One foot in front of the other, they shuffle down the platform to a point where the lines of people thin out and he waits for Kenma to take a seat first. Habits, dug deep enough, are hard to break, no matter how long dust is left to gather.

“Kuro,” Kenma calls out. “You can sit down first.”

It’s only then that Kuroo notices the way Kenma’s eyes linger on his ankle, stealing glances from the corner of his eye. Checking and rechecking, just as Kuroo had done so many times before when Kenma had pushed himself too hard during a match, fever lingering on the edges of sleep like a storm; forehead hot to the touch.

Kuroo stayed sprawled out on his bedroom floor, fussing and changing the towel on his forehead almost obsessively, as if half a second late would be enough to push Kenma over the brink. When Kenma had gathered enough strength, his arm made feeble attempts to swat Kuroo away.

It was his fault, and Kuroo knows; for he was the one who had dragged Kenma into playing volleyball in the first place.

“You don’t need to do that anymore, Kuro…” Kenma mutters.

Kuroo freezes. “Do what?”

“Accommodate so much.”

_When did they get so awkward?_

Kuroo feels like he doesn’t know how to place his body, his limbs flailing out of his control, misjudging the distance, and stepping too far. So instead, he busies himself with moving his backpack and winces when he’s too rough in his haste.

(And pretends, he doesn’t notice the way Kenma’s eyes immediately flicker down to his foot.)

“My luggage was too heavy,” Kuroo offers for explanation with an easy grin, as if to fill the space between them. “I was just sitting on the airport floor with my suitcase open in front of me for 30 minutes trying to cram things into my rucksack.”

“I figured.” Then, sparing him the briefest of glances, adds on, “Your bag weighs a tonne.”

Laughter, Kuroo knows, can sometimes be like this; empty or hollow; used to fill the room or invade a space; bridge, from one line to the next. A placeholder to keep seconds idle. He’s used to filling the gaps, but with Kenma, he never felt like he had to, for sometimes they were content to just sit in silence, and watch as the world turned around them.

* * *

For not the first time, he curses himself for this distance between them.

(But knows that, despite it all, he could never leave this bridge to crumble.)

* * *

This is what happens to things that are left for too long.

Dust collects and bones get creaky and what was stitched into muscle memory is now something so distant.

And sometimes, the urge to revisit it catches you in the most unsuspecting of times.

When you try to pick it up again, it feels too unfamiliar, like trying to slide back into old shoes, with soles moulded to the curves of your toes, the balls of your feet. Shoes that you _know_ fit, for you've run a marathon in them, laces double knotted, sprinted right to the edges of the earth itself; but when you try to wedge your toes in, you find that they no longer do.

And you wonder how you managed to do it before, because you cannot remember the motions of it, realise now, you've taken it for granted; and you're left trying to mimic the phantom footprints though they're blurring; can feel the ache that keeps lingering in fistfuls.

Sometimes, you drop it as quickly as you picked it back up, worried it'll singe your skin; for _some things are better left discarded_ , you reason, _and it is nostalgia that is sweetening the memories and tinting them rose._

But other times, you latch on even tighter, stubborn in your quest as you dig your heels into the ground; and you will discover that it does not burn you. For this is a want that has erupted from far deeper than your skin, an itch that has burrowed its way down into your marrow.

And you know, that _this;_ left unstirred, no attempts made; will be a regret that will not dampen with time.

* * *

“Hey, Kenma?”

“Yeah?”

(One step forward, off of the riverbank.)

“It was good to see you.”

**Author's Note:**

> \- this was originally just a small thing where i wanted to write some longterm yearning in this nebulous area of 'some time in uni' + 'idk how old they are and it doesn't really matter' but then along the way it Did matter to me.. for some reason...  
> \- not rly important but this is set in summer 2016 (to summer 2017). kuroo's 21-22, in his 4th year in uni and kenma's in his 3rd. uni is usually 4 years but many athletes stay in uni for longer (bc they're busy w training/tournaments/are considered more part time students)  
> \- **the whole Kuroo Being Stressed In Uni Dilemma:** mainly based off of the idea that most people who go to uni for studies focus mainly on them/arent rly looking to go to division 1; whilst people who go to uni for sports pick a course relating to it (sports medicine/writing a thesis on smth used to further tech in their sport or a sports uni etc), but focus on training. whilst they do play in their uni team, they can also be drafted for the national team (w out turning pro, though this is less common). some athletes start playing in clubs after competing w their uni team for ~2 years (but idk if this means that they drop out of uni or not...) these are just trends ive seen around so not 100% accurate/applicable for everyone!! (or i can just apply this to fic logic lol)  
> \- **tl;dr** kuroo is v serious about getting a chem degree AND getting into div 1 (after he graduates), which is difficult/less common (but not impossible!) 
> 
> \- my first haikyuu fic was written and posted in april 2014 on tumblr. someone was kind enough to give me an ao3 invite and 6 years later, im finally posting my first haikyuu fic on ao3 after years of not writing w several failed attempts to pick it back up sprinkled throughout w a 5 second dip into other fandoms (to that nice 2014 anon... wherever you are... i hope youre having a Good Day !!!)
> 
> \- honestly rn im just [gestures vaguely] but i just wanted to start Somewhere and apparently Somewhere is kuroo lovemail (??)
> 
> thank you for reading! // [twitter](http://twitter.com/centreskies/)


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